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The clock ticked its way into the future as they waited around the table. Plumes rose from the old man’s pipe, filling the room with its familiar smell. The clack of the woman’s needles provided a counter rhythm to the clock she kept watching.

Their son ran in. “She sent them!”

The two stood up. “She did? Thank God.”

The boy slapped down the tickets, showing the words RMS Titanic. “We’re going to America!”

This world is not my home

Nobody would hire Shantel. Human training as a starship captain was not enough.

She read the ad again. “Hiring freighter captains to sail the Sea of Stars.” She carefully checked the small print. Captains were based on Enduri; could hire their own crew; and set their own schedule. She cheerfully signed for 10 years.

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(Two years later.) Shantel sighed resignedly. The ocean called “Sea of Stars” was not the “sea of stars” she’d imagined.

Tim James

The exposed ribs of the ship's carcass clawed fingerlike from the mud and silt. Once beautiful, an ocean faring vessel with a soul as beautiful as a butterfly.

Everything changes, mechanics and science eroding magic and wonder. As the steamers rolled up rivers, the mystical world faded into twilight.
As the chimneys puked toxins into the air, all that remained of the age of wonders, were skeletal hulks, become passively mundane.